


Feels Like Being Pack

by i_know_its_0ver



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bonding, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pack Feels, isaac is my precious baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 17:41:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_know_its_0ver/pseuds/i_know_its_0ver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isaac feels the pain flowing out of the skin beneath his hands and into his own veins, like a wildfire raging within him, but then quickly burning out, leaving behind only the vague echo of discomfort. </p><p>“Oh my god,” Stiles sighs with his whole body. “How did you do that? What did you do? What was—oh my god.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feels Like Being Pack

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I wrote while I was _supposed_ to be writing something else. But then Isaac feelings just snuck up on me. Basically, I just want Isaac  & Stiles to bond, because I think they'd understand each other and be super adorable bffs. 
> 
> Warnings for minor, non-graphic description of a wound. 
> 
> Thanks to rufflefeather for looking this over and reassuring me that I'm not a total failure.

Stiles is quiet. That’s the first thing Isaac notices, after the fight. They’re returning to the warehouse, tails tucked between their metaphorical legs, and the atmosphere is heavy with disappointment and fear. But that’s never kept Stiles quiet before. 

Stiles is quiet, and something is wrong.

He’s trailing behind the others, and it isn’t just that his human gate is slow in comparison to the werewolves, like usual. He’s falling further and further behind, and the rest of them don’t even notice, but Isaac hangs back, scuffing at the ground in agitation as he waits for Stiles to catch up. No one should be left behind. 

Stiles ambles up with a nod of acknowledgement, but doesn’t look Isaac in the eye, doesn’t say a word. His skin is pale and his jaw is clenched and he’s still so _quiet_. 

Stiles turns to follow after the others, but Isaac places a gentle hand on Stiles’s shoulder, not pulling away until Stiles stops and finally lifts his head enough for Isaac to make out his tense expression in the pale moonlight. It confirms what he’s been worrying about for the last half hour.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone you were hurt?” Isaac asks, breaking the disconcerting silence. They should have sensed it without being told, he doesn’t say out loud. If they were paying even the slightest attention they would have seen the way Stiles’s gate is slightly off, smelled the sharp scent of pain emanating from him in ever-increasing waves. 

Stiles just shrugs and offers Isaac that weary, self-deprecating smile that he’s been wearing all too often lately. Like he knows that no one is going to look at him closely enough to notice its brittleness. Scott has been too concerned with Allison’s safety, Erica and Boyd with helping each other, and Derek too busy castigating himself for putting his pack in danger, again. 

Which leaves Stiles, alone and in pain, too damn selfless for his own good, not wanting to impose on the others with his own problems. It makes something twinge inside Isaac, because Stiles is _pack_ , and caring for each other is what pack _does_. If only Stiles would realize that. 

“Let me see,” Isaac says, motioning for Stiles to lift his torn shirt and expose the set of gashes along his side. Stiles huffs and rolls his eyes and gives Isaac the ‘really, it’s fine’ look, but Isaac stares him down until he finally gives in to being examined, but not without a very put-upon sigh. 

“See, no big deal” Stiles says, motioning to the cuts, even as the movement makes him wince and suck in air through his clenched teeth. 

“Yeah, sure, tough guy. Just shut up for a minute and let me look.” Isaac lifts careful fingers to prod around the wounds, inspecting their depth and looking for any debris that might get inside and cause an infection. Hanging out with Scott at Deaton’s clinic has been useful, after all. Thankfully, the cuts all look shallow and clean, but still angry and red and definitely painful. Stiles tries his best to stay still and quiet, but Isaac feels the strangled gasp as his fingers hit tender skin beginning to blossom with fresh bruises. 

“It’s no big deal. I mean, I don’t heal like you super-freaks, but a couple bandaids, some Neosporin, and I’ll be good as new in a few days. Hey, do you think it’ll leave scars? I hear chicks dig scars, it would look totally manly, right?” Stiles is babbling, as he usually does when he’s deflecting attention away from himself. The others usually tune it out as meaningless prattle, but Isaac is learning how to sift through Stiles’s words, to find the kernels of sincerity hidden within the onslaught of chatter. 

“Stiles,” Isaac says patiently, hands still resting on Stiles’s exposed torso, the skin beginning to break out in goosebumps in the chilly night air. “Just relax. I’ll make it better.” 

Stiles just wrinkles his brow in confusion, his mouth opening to release another torrent of words, but before he can, his face falls slack with amazement. 

Isaac feels the pain flowing out of the skin beneath his hands and into his own veins, like a wildfire raging within him, but then quickly burning out, leaving behind only the vague echo of discomfort. 

“Oh my god,” Stiles sighs with his whole body. “How did you do that? What did you do? What was—oh my god.” 

Isaac keeps silent as Stiles’s mind seems to work its way through the puzzle, putting together conclusions at lightning speed, as usual. Isaac removes his hands from Stiles skin, which has already lost its feverish heat, but keeps them raised, ready to steady Stiles if he keeps swaying unsteadily like that while he gapes in amazement. 

Stiles looks back down at his own chest and sees the gashes and bruises all still present and accounted for. He slowly extends one finger, and in the manner of a scientist conducting a very delicate experiment, gingerly pokes one of the bruises. His face remains screwed up in concentration, not even flinching as he presses the tender flesh. “Huh,” he murmurs, testing it again. He looks back up at Isaac, his gaze sharp and evaluating, but also holding something like wonder. 

“You didn’t heal me,” Stiles states, just the hint of a question, “but you took away the pain. That’s…handy.” 

Isaac shrugs and rubs a hand along the back of his neck, suddenly feeling shy. So far he’s only shown his talent to Scott and Dr. Deaton, but he hadn’t actually _used_ it on them. And the dogs he’s helped have never looked at him like _that_. It feels different, using it on a human, a person he knows, a _packmate_. Sort of intimate, like sharing something deeply personal, sharing a part of himself. He has no idea if it felt that way for Stiles too, or if to him it’s just another cool werewolf trick. 

“How does it work?” Stiles asks, ever the curious researcher. “When you…sucked the pain out.” He makes a sound vaguely like a vacuum cleaner as he mimes pulling something out of his chest with his fingers. “What happens? I mean, does it just…disappear? Or is it like a transitive thing?” 

He’s watching Isaac closely, like he’s something fascinating, and frankly Isaac isn’t used to that kind of attention. People’s eyes usually seem to slide off of him as easily as if he’s part of the background, there but unworthy of particular note. Stiles has always been one to look at him directly, but never quite like this, like Isaac is something…special, and interesting, and maybe a little wonderful. Probably no one has ever looked at him like that. It’s like being under a spotlight, the heat making his cheeks darken. 

“I sort of, I dunno, absorb it,” Isaac replies, shrugging his shoulders to show it’s no big deal. He’s pretty sure the others can all do it too, it’s not like it’s something extraordinary. 

“So you felt it? My pain?” Stiles asks, his eyes shifting into something more serious, suddenly giving off the scent of distress. Like it upsets him to think about causing Isaac pain. Like anyone has ever thought twice about that before. 

“It’s not a big deal,” Isaac deflects, feet shuffling against the ground. “Super werewolf healing, remember? It’s barely anything to me. Like, getting a shot, a tiny pinch and then gone.” And it’s true, this relatively minor level of pain is nothing more than a moment’s discomfort to Isaac, but Stiles is still looking at him with concern. 

“You shouldn’t—You don’t have to do that. For me. I don’t want you to—You shouldn’t. I mean, thank you. For doing that. But you don’t have to take my pain. I can deal with it myself. You shouldn’t have to take my pain along with yours.” Stiles jerks his chin towards Isaac’s arm, where bones that had been broken in the fight have long since healed. And that had hurt too, hurt like hell, for a minute, but it was all part of it. Of being pack, and protecting each other. He’d taken that blow to protect Erica. He hadn’t been there in times to keep Stiles from harm, so taking the pain after the fact seemed only fair. 

“We’re pack,” Isaac says simply, with a shrug, because really, there aren’t any other words to explain. “That’s what pack does.” 

Stiles’s smile seems oddly pained, somewhere between a grin and a grimace. Isaac knows Stiles is still getting used to being pack, to belonging and being accepted on no further merit than being himself. It’s something Isaac is only coming to understand himself, but he feels it, deep in his bones, something beyond mere instinct. He hopes, in time, that Stiles will feel it too. He already puts his life at risk for the others without question. Maybe someday he’ll learn to accept reciprocation without surprise or suspicion. 

“Well,” Stiles replies, his body losing its tension as he drops his shirt back down and slouches against the nearest wall, finally giving in to the lax feeling of comfort. “That is one badass super power, dude. And, you know, it really suits you. Looking after others.”

Isaac isn’t sure what to do with that warm look of appreciation, so he slouches beside Stiles, letting their shoulders bump in easy comradeship. 

“Not as cool as flying, maybe, but definitely better than x-ray vision. Possibly tied with invisibility.” And there Stiles goes with the babbling again, suddenly intent on ranking all the superpowers in order of coolness and practicality, and Isaac lets him go on, with the occasional nod of agreement. But under it all, Isaac can see what Stiles is trying to say. And it feels good, to be appreciated. 

It feels like being pack.


End file.
